


The Morning After The Night Before

by mad_martha



Series: Auror [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_martha/pseuds/mad_martha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has second and third thoughts about a development in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After The Night Before

Harry's first thought, when he awoke, was _Ow._ This was followed almost immediately by _Ooooooooh shit._

His head was killing him. It wasn't the worst headache he'd ever had by a long shot, but it was the first time he'd woken up feeling like that. He also felt like he'd been in a particularly energetic game of Quidditch the day before; his body was aching all over, and in one or two unusual places.

Then he moved … and froze.

There was someone else in the bed with him.

Harry's eyes shot open and he flinched reflexively from the sunlight streaming through the nearby window. Where were the curtains? And why was he clinging to the edge of the bed? For crying out loud, what -

 _Ah. Oh yes … that. I remember._ Very slowly and cautiously, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. Yep, no doubt about it. There was no mistaking that messy red hair and lanky form next to him. It explained why he had less than a foot of space on the edge of the very wide four-poster bed too. In all the years Harry had shared a dormitory with Ron, he had never seen him sleep in any position other than spread-eagled right across the mattress.

Well, that was one thing that would change if they were ever going to do this again. Although Harry wasn't at all sure if that was the case, or even if he wanted it. Right now, all he knew was that he had a killer headache and he wanted a potion to get rid of it.

Moving very slowly and carefully - as much because of his head as a desire not to wake Ron - he slid out of bed and stood up. His jeans (along with most of his other clothes, and Ron's) were strewn across the floor in a rather embarrassing manner and, worse, there was an item of underwear dangling decadently from the bathroom door-handle. He snagged his jeans and struggled into them. Actually, he decided, gritting his teeth as he straightened up with the aid of the bedpost, the headache wasn't the worst part at all. The worst part was the ominous lurch in his stomach as he moved and the spinning sensation behind his eyes.

 _Headache potion,_ he thought grimly, _and back to bed, regardless of who's in it with me._

The stone flags of the kitchen floor were cold against his feet as he cautiously made his way to the store cupboard. Inside, he found the bag that contained things like headache powders and plasters. There was also a tall green bottle there that he hadn't seen before; when he squinted at the label the words _Hangover Potion_ jumped back at him in Hermione's neat, prissy writing. The emerald green letters radiated her particular brand of disapproval.

 _Huh._ Evidently Hermione knew him and Ron better than they did themselves. They hadn't started out with the intention of getting drunk, after all. Harry wasn't arguing with Hermione's foresight, though. He picked up the bottle with relief, scanned the instructions and helped himself to a couple of spoonfuls. Almost at once his stomach settled and the spinning stopped. His headache even began to ebb away.

"Not bad," Harry murmured, impressed. He still wanted to lie down again, though, so he took the bottle and spoon (in case Ron needed a dose when he woke up) and went back to the bedroom.

In his absence Ron had moved to take over the rest of the bed, no mean feat considering the size of it. Harry surveyed him with exasperation. This was definitely something they were going to have to work on, if they were going to pursue any kind of physical relationship together. Harry had slept in one or two odd and very cramped spaces over the years, but there was no way he was going to spend even a small portion of each night clinging to the edge of the mattress by his finger- and toenails. Just getting used to sleeping with someone else would be difficult enough.

But first things first. He leaned over the bed and gave Ron's shoulder a shake.

"Oi! Ron."

No response, which wasn't so terribly surprising. Trying to drag Ron out of bed for Quidditch practice almost every weekend for the past three years had taught Harry how difficult it was to wake him up.

He sighed. Okay, maybe more drastic measures …. Getting both hands under his friend's shoulder and hip, Harry heaved, rolling him firmly over into the middle of the bed. Without so much as a flicker of an eyelid, Ron spread himself out over the other side of the bed instead, snuggling into the pillows.

" _Thank_ you!" Harry muttered, just a tad resentfully, and he shed his jeans again, hopping back into bed.

Barely had he got the covers pulled up, though, when Ron suddenly turned over again, spread-eagling himself across Harry's side of the bed once more and - not so incidentally - across Harry himself. Indignant at this turn of events, Harry was about to give him another sharp shove when Ron suddenly woke up.

Unlike Harry, there was no jolt of surprise. There was a definite pause when he registered that he was in bed with someone else; then he opened his eyes and flinched at the brilliant sunlight from the window.

" _Ouch!_ Ooooh …." And to Harry's surprise, he chuckled painfully, squinting and holding a hand up to block the light. "My _head_ …!"

It was hard to say if he was really aware of what had happened yet. In fact, was he even aware who he was in bed with? Suddenly Harry was bitterly conscious that the night before he had allowed the Firewhisky to do his thinking for him. How could he have been so stupid as to think that it wouldn't matter if sleeping together was a mistake? What if Ron was horrified? "It was all your idea," probably wouldn't help matters much.

"Want some Hangover Potion?" he offered nervously; anything to break the silence.

Ron blinked and squinted up at him. "Hm?"

"Hangover Potion. It works."

"'Kay …."

Harry handed him the bottle and spoon and watched as he fumbled a couple of doses into his mouth. Predictably he spilled some of it down his chin, which he caught quickly and licked off his finger. Harry had to close his eyes. _I will_ not _think about licking Ron's fingers …._

"That's got to be Hermione's brew." Ron's voice broke into his agitated thoughts. He sounded a lot clearer-headed, and Harry opened his eyes again quickly. Ron was holding out the bottle and spoon. "It even tastes good," he added, with a grin.

Unable to think of anything to say, Harry just took the bottle and put it back on the table beside the bed. There was a pause which quickly grew uncomfortable, and he realised that he was looking anywhere rather than look at Ron. He began to wish he hadn't taken his jeans off again.

"Are you all right?" Ron asked finally.

"Um … yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"'Cause you don't look all right." There was an odd note in his voice; it sounded fearful.

Harry forced himself to look at his friend. Ron's expression was almost defensive, but his blue eyes were frightened. Maybe the implications of what had happened were starting to sink in. He quickly looked away again, then realised he was gripping the sheets up around his chest and made himself let go of them. It was a bit late to start acting like a Victorian bride, after all, and hiding under the covers wouldn't undo what they'd done.

"Are you sorry?" he blurted out suddenly, and wanted to smack himself around the head. _Smooth, Potter, really smooth._

To his astonishment Ron snorted, and when he looked the redhead was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Are you kidding?" he chortled. "The only thing I'm sorry about is drinking that bloody Firewhisky!"

"Oh." Well, that was a relief. Harry relaxed slightly, only to tense up again a moment later when it occurred to him that Ron might want to repeat the experiment in less inebriated conditions. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that. Or at least he _was_ (he was nearly eighteen so of course he was ready, he was _always_ ready) but at the same time he wasn't, because right now he was sticky in places he didn't want to think about, his mouth tasted of cat litter and hangover potion, and he really badly needed a shave. And now that his head was clear, he wanted to think about the wider implications before doing - _that_ \- again.

"Shower," he mumbled, and started to jump out of bed. Then he remembered that he was stark naked. _Oh - um …._ His towel was in the bathroom and it would look a bit odd if he put his jeans on just to go in there. Harry dithered for a moment indecisively.

"Harry?" Ron sounded amused and a little puzzled, as well he might.

Nothing else for it. And after all, it wasn't like Ron hadn't seen it all before, even before last night. They'd shared bathroom facilities for the last seven years. "Shower," he repeated more firmly, and he stalked through to the bathroom self-consciously.

It wasn't until he was standing under the spray that he started to question his behaviour. What was the matter with him? Hadn't they discussed this? They'd spent hours rehashing the conversation they'd had nearly five months ago, and not all of it had been drunken declarations of mutual lust. It had been serious stuff, and actually Harry was quite proud of them both because it wasn't like their track record for dealing with the serious stuff was all that good. But they really had covered everything, from how they personally felt to the likely reactions of everyone connected with them, and how it might affect their training as Aurors when they started it at the beginning of August.

So it wasn't like he'd gone into any of this blindly or unwillingly. And it would be a lie to say that he hadn't enjoyed it. It was just -

The cubicle door swung open and Ron stepped into the shower with him. Harry jumped and yelped at the unexpected intrusion, making Ron stare at him in dismay.

"Bloody hell, Harry - it's only me!"

"I know that!" Harry spluttered. "It's just … I don't … why are you …?" His voice trailed off uncertainly and there was another uncomfortable pause.

Finally Ron said, in a very controlled voice, "You know, if you're having second thoughts, all you have to do is say so. You don't have to act like I'm about to jump on you or something." Despite his efforts to hide it, however, there was hurt underneath that Harry heard all too clearly.

"It's not that at all," he muttered. But he was still unable to look his friend in the eye. He had a soapy sponge in his hand; he was gripping it so tightly that a stream of thin foam was pouring over his knuckles and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from it.

"Then what is it?" Ron demanded in the same, tightly controlled tone. "Because you're acting like you think you made a big mistake last night."

"I'm _not!_ I just ...." Harry puffed out a frustrated breath. "It's just that ... I'm not sure if I'm as ready to throw caution to the wind as I was when I was three parts drunk, okay? I'm not saying it was a mistake – it's just that everything feels different this morning."

"Different _how?"_

"I don't know!" Harry snapped back, suddenly furious. "It just does!"

They glared at each other for a moment, then Ron snatched the sponge away from him.

"Gimme that ...." He stepped under the spray, unnervingly close in the confines of the cubicle, and began to scrub himself with sharp, angry motions. "Oh, for crying out loud - !" Harry had reflexively stepped away from him. "Will you _stop_ that? Anyone would think you're some shrinking virgin, and I know perfectly well you're not - even before last night!"

Harry turned an uncomfortable crimson. "What - ?"

Ron snorted in a mixture of anger and amusement. "I heard about you and Cho last summer," he said. "Sirius told Dad about catching the pair of you at it, when he brought you to our house, and Fred and George overheard. I was furious when they told me," he added as an afterthought.

"Thank _you,_ Sirius Black," muttered Harry, resentfully. His mischievous godfather had clearly been hell-bent on getting every last ounce of amusement out of the story. "Well that explains why you were pissed off with me from the moment I arrived."

"You have no idea. Explains why Hermione dumped me within days of you arriving, too. C'mere - " Ron grabbed Harry's arm and turned him around firmly. "Look, will you stand still? I'm just scrubbing your back, you prat!"

"This feels weird," Harry told him over his shoulder. It was really hard to relax, not because being soaped up and scrubbed by someone else was unpleasant, but rather the opposite. All sort of parts of Harry's body were waking up and saying hello at the unfamiliar sensations. It was something he really _didn't_ need when he was trying to have a conversation with Ron about how none of this felt quite right.

"What, having your back scrubbed? That's only because you never had my mum dunking you in a tub of hot water at the first sign of dirt."

"No, I didn't," Harry mumbled. He'd never had anyone dunking him in a tub of hot water – the few occasions he could dimly recall of his Aunt Petunia scrubbing him when he was very small involved cold water and a brush. She'd been rough out of pure resentment, and it was a wonder she hadn't drowned him in the process.

"Get used to it. If I have my way, I'll be scrubbing your back at every opportunity." The aggressive tone of this comment was utterly ruined by Ron suddenly putting his arms around Harry awkwardly. Startlingly, he was now tall enough to rest his chin on top of his friend's head. "Is that why you're so twitchy about being touched?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know – not having your Mum to do stuff for you."

"Oh." Harry hadn't really thought about it, but he supposed he _was_ defensive about people manhandling him. He was having to fight every instinct now not to push Ron away, and he got the same urge on the rare occasions that Sirius pulled him into a bear-hug. Things like back-slapping were okay but anything more demonstrative made him uncomfortable. It had been one of Cho's main complaints about him when they split up. He supposed it could be a result of never knowing parental affection; in spite of his reluctance to be touched, he'd always been desperately envious of the love Mrs. Weasley had showered on all her children. He tried to make a joke of it. "Maybe. I don't know what makes me do stupid things, do I?"

But it was several moments before Ron replied, and when he did his voice was very sober. "Don't give up now, Harry. I know it feels weird, mate, but it's not a bad kind of weird, is it? It's just something new to get used to."

 _Easy for you to say,_ Harry thought resentfully, only too aware that Ron was having a very eighteen-year-old reaction to being pressed up against another warm body. Annoyingly, he could feel himself responding. He supposed that proved something, although he wasn't sure what.

"What if it all goes wrong?" he persisted. "And Hermione's in London as we speak, arranging that stupid student house thing we agreed to – how the hell are we supposed to keep this to ourselves when we're sharing living space with four other people?"

Ron made an exasperated sound. "Harry, we hashed all this out last night. We'll keep it to ourselves for as long as we can, but just tell them all if we have to."

"I don't see how they won't notice straight away," Harry muttered.

"That's what God created privacy spells for, and it's not like we're planning on holding hands in public, is it?" Ron shuddered. "I don't think I'll _ever_ be ready for that. Look, turn around will you? I'm fed up of talking to the back of your head."

He did so, but reluctantly. Ron made no comment about his obvious physical condition though, pulling him back into the hug. Harry found that his nose was pressed against his friend's collarbone, but of far more concern were certain other areas pressing rather noticeably together. It made it very difficult to concentrate, and he wished he was taller.

"As for it all going wrong, how long have we been friends?" Ron asked.

It seemed like a very long time. For Harry there was the time before Hogwarts, and the time that came after. He was planning on forgetting the former just as fast as he could; he was never going back to Privet Drive. But Ron fell into the latter category, and Harry couldn't imagine what life would be like without him in it. He had lived without friends before Hogwarts, but it had been a miserable way to exist.

"We've stopped talking to each other before," he murmured into the hollow of his friend's throat, "but I don't think I could stand it if we stopped permanently." He swallowed. "I could live without being your lover, but not without being your friend. And shut me up now, I sound like a really bad romance novel."

Ron snickered. "You've been reading Rita Skeeter's column again, haven't you?"

"Whoever invented that new quill she's using should be strung up."

"Percy uses one to write his reports."

Harry made a friendly suggestion about some alternative uses for Percy's quill that the manufacturer certainly hadn't envisaged when he designed it.

"I like the way you think," Ron remarked appreciatively, but he quickly sobered again. "Harry, we're adults now. Not talking to each other would be a pretty immature response to falling out, don't you think? Besides, I'm not planning on falling out with you. We managed to talk about it last night, and I think if things start going wrong we can try to talk about it again. All right?"

Harry gave in. He wasn't sure why he was arguing anyway, except that he could never seem to do things the easy way or accept them at face value. Maybe it was a side-effect of the ever-lurking Voldemort situation. Or maybe it was just that he was so accustomed to bad things happening in his life. It wasn't like he didn't want to believe that this could work. He _did_ want to believe in it, more badly than Ron could know. He wanted to believe that someone who meant so much to him could actually love him back in that way.

"All right," he said, and it felt like a huge weight had just dropped from his shoulders. Okay, so it was early days yet, but they had ten days of their holiday left to work out the fine tuning, before they had to face friends and family like nothing was going on.

"Good." Ron's relief was evident in his voice. "In that case, I think we could get out of the shower now. You don't want breakfast, do you?"

"No – " The hangover potion had been good, but Harry's stomach still wasn't ready for anything else.

"In that case, let's go back to bed." Ron grinned at Harry's expression. "And don't tell me you don't want to, because I can tell that's not true!"


End file.
